Dual Heritage
by Silver Spider
Summary: Robyn takes her daughter to Scotland to see half her heritage and ends up learning something herself. “Bad Guys”-inspired one-shot. Tied to "Nightcaps", "Altered Paths", "Bonds of Blood and Water", "Shadows of Destiny", "Life Rearranges", and "Talent."


_**Author's Note:**_ Hey guys, so unlike "Seven Nights Down Under", this fic does fall into my previous Bad Guys fics collection ("Nightcaps", "Altered Paths", "Bonds of Blood and Water", "Shadows of Destiny", "Life Rearranges", and "Talent"). A friend of mine on LiveJournal thought Robyn could uses some bonding time with her daughter so this one came along. Also I was in England recently so some of this comes from what I saw there. I will be returning to "Seven Nights Down Under" and "Symphony of Angels" asap. I'll probably be alternating between those fics for the near future. Hope you guys like, and please review!

**Dual Heritage**

**By: Silver Spider**

It was after their family vacation to Australia that Erika started asking questions about her heritage. The two-week long trip was immensely enjoyable, probably because Dingo already knew which places were worth visiting. She was fascinated by all the exotic animals and managed picked up a funny little song somewhere along the way that she happily hummed for far longer than either of her parents thought humanly possible.

"_Are you a marsupial?_

_And have you a little pouch?_

_When I pinch it on the outside,_

_Does something inside holler 'ouch'?_"

Erika was a curious child to begin with – not surprising considering she was constantly surrounded by things other children never saw – and her father regaled her with stories from the outback. She soaked them up like a sponge, and when he ran out, turned to her mother.

Robyn was at a loose of what to tell her. If she had ever thought much about her roots, it was not in any positive way. She tended to consider her ancestors and her daughter as two completely unrelated things, entities to be kept apart at all times. But that was unfair to Erika, who was already asking how far away Scotland was from Paris. Luckily there was at least one person she knew who still maintained a measure of Scottish pride.

"Where will you be staying?" Macbeth asked over the phone.

"I hadn't looked into it yet," Robyn admitted. "I'd rather not stay in Edinburgh."

It must have sounded bizarre: to come to Scotland and _not_ to go see the most famous castle in the country and visit the museums. Again Robyn felt as if she was cheating her daughter of something, but she promised herself to make it up to her. To her relief, Macbeth did not ask why she was avoiding the capital, though she suspected he already knew.

"If you had no other plans, I'd welcome you in my home in Moray," he offered. "It's not particularly close to any civilization, but then Scotland is not a large country, and we have modern transportation at our disposal."

"You still have a house in Moray?" for some reason that surprised her, though Robyn had never forgotten who it was she was speaking to. "Not in the castle itself?"

"No," he sounded amused. "I have a modest dwelling a few kilometers from it. You and your family should be comfortable there."

"It's just me and Erika," she said. "Harry can't make it."

She suspected her husband was purposefully ducking out of this trip because he thought she could use some quality mother-daughter bonding time. Robyn hated to admit it, but he was probably right. She did not get to spend nearly as much time with Erika as she would like.

"Ah, that's a shame. Well, either way, you're welcome here. I can't promise I'll be there when you arrive though. I want to finish some work in the States and give your brother something to occupy himself with, but I should be no more than a day or two behind you."

Had they gone by plane, they could have been in Scotland within a couple hours, but given the choice, Erika had asked to go by train instead, to get a better view of both England and Scotland. Robyn had tried to explain to her that she would have to get up very early, the trip would take up an entire entire day, and she would most likely be bored and exhausted, but her daughter had inherited her stubbornness. Train it was.

Halfway through England, when her sketchpad was filled with images of grazing cows and sheep, the girl was asleep, her head cradled in her mother's arms. Robyn watched the endless grass fields pass outside the window while absently stroking her daughter's hair. They made one of their rare stops, and a woman in her early fifties boarded and sat down on the other side of the small plastic table in front of them. She smiled, and Robyn returned it in way of polite greeting. The train began to move again.

"Heading to Scotland?" she asked. Robyn nodded in response. "Oh, you will love it. Such a lovely country."

If she was not so content, Robyn might have been annoyed at the woman's presumption that she was just another tourist. Instead she only smiled.

"I know," she purposefully let her accent come out heavier than usual.

The woman pursed her lips in a little 'oh', slightly embarrassed, but Robyn's smile grew, showing her that it was alright, no harm done. Apparently it was taken as an invitation to continue talking. She continued like that for another half hour, with Robyn tuning in and out of what she was saying.

"My son moved to Edinburgh a few years ago," the woman chattered on. "He and his wife just had a baby boy. Huh, imagine me: a grandmother. Where are you headed, dear?"

"To Moray," she replied. "To see my uncle."

She was saved from any more interrogation because Erika stirred in her lap. The girl lifted her head, rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, and glanced out the window.

"Are we there yet?" she asked in a sleepy voice.

"Not yet, sweetheart," Robyn smoothed back her hair. "You can go back to sleep."

"Oh," pause, "okay."

She was out again in seconds. The woman gave Robyn a knowing smile.

"Your daughter is beautiful."

She could not help but feel a swell of maternal pride. "Thank you."

They passed Edinburgh an hour and a half later, and the woman departed. The cart was now empty, and Erika awoke for real, so Robyn passed her the wrapped sandwich and juice box. She munched it for a little while, looking out the window as they left the city behind again.

"Did we pass Stonehenge?" she asked finally.

"A while back," her mother replied. "Stonehenge is in England."

"Oh," she did not seem too upset. "Was it really built by aliens?"

"I don't think so," Robyn laughed a little. "Who told you that?"

"Fang. He said it was on some American cartoon from before I was born."

"I think Fang is a little confused. Stonehenge was built by Celts."

"Skirts?"

"Celts with a 'c', not kilts with a 'k'," Robyn corrected, though she was fairly sure Erika knew that and was just being funny. "They were people who lived here a long time ago."

"As long ago as Uncle Macbeth?" her mother stared at her. "What? I listen."

Her indignant tone was a perfect imitation of Dingo. Robyn considered denying the point, but decided against it. Gargoyles and mutates and other unbelievable things were a constant part of Erika's life. Why should she not believe that her uncle was a thousand years old?

"Older," Robyn finally replied. "Though he did live in a time when the practices were common enough. You can ask him about it when we get there."

"'kay," the girl went back to staring out the window, but the silence did not last long. "What about Nessie? Is that real? Loch Ness is in Scotland, right?"

"Right. I don't know about the monster, though. Could be."

The silence lasted longer this time until the train stopped again. Two red-haired men dressed in traditional Scottish garb passed them on their way to the next cart. Erika craned her neck to get a better look but contained her giggles until the door closed behind them.

"Kilts are funny."

_Spoken like a true foreigner_, Robyn though, but she too could not help but smile slightly. "It's tradition," she chastised. "You don't think kimonos are funny."

"But boys in skirts _are_ funny," Erika insisted and continued to giggle. "Imagine Daddy in one."

_Okay, good point_...

The trip did not end when the train stopped. Getting up to the actual house was a job in of itself. The station was at a town that surrounded what was once Castle Moray and was now a museum. Erika stared up at the castle on the hill, wide-eyed and clearly very impressed. Robyn, equally impressed though less obvious about it, pulled her daughter along with a promise that they could come back the next day after they had settled in. It was late, and the museum was likely closed anyway.

The town that surrounded it was the kind of place that could be walked diagonally within a half hour at most and boasted only one car that passed for a taxi. When she told the driver that she wanted to be taken to the large mansion that stood a few miles away, she got a blank stare in response.

"Sure I can take you," the man replied. "But why would you want to go there? Man who owns it has not been around in years."

"I know," she tried not to be annoyed by the small town mentality of being in everyone's business. "He's my uncle."

"Is he really?" she might as well have told the man she was related to Big Foot. " 'Cause folks 'round here kinda figured..."

"Sir," her tone brokered no further argument. "I'll thank you not to frighten my daughter."

Erika, who looked more confused than anything else, looked between the driver and her mother, but wisely kept her mouth shut. She'd learned at a very young age that there were some things they did not talk to strangers about and knew how to read the adults in her life when a case like that arose. She just stood by her mother's side and turned on a sweet smile to the man to show that she was not afraid of whatever they thought of her uncle here.

The driver left them at the end of the paved rode and speed away as fast as possible. They were still a good two hundred meters from the front door, giving them a good view of the structure even in the dim evening light. Robyn stared, not quite sure how to put her thoughts into words. Was this what Macbeth called a 'modest dwelling'? Erika was quicker on the uptake.

"Uncle Macbeth lives in a castle!"

It was not quite a castle in the classical sense but rather a miniature of one. No walls or moat, as was typical for actual castles from the eleventh century. Robyn doubted that was how old the building was, but it was certainly made to look old. The architecture was a mixture of Gothic and something else she could not quite put her finger on. Se did not even bother to guess how many rooms it housed.

Inside the furniture of the foyer, living, dining rooms were also beautifully decorated. They were obviously old-fashioned – she wondered just how much of the furniture and other artifacts really belonged in museums – but not so much as to be uncomfortable. She looked around the place with the same amazement that Erika was so enthusiastically sharing.

"Stay close to me," she told her daughter, "and don't touch anything."

Macbeth had assured her that there were no active booby traps or other things that would harm anyone, but 'active' was the operative word, and Robyn was not willing to take a chance that he had remembered to turn them all off. She really wished Harry had come with them; with a child as inquisitive as their daughter was, an extra pair of eyes never hurt.

If the foremost rooms were old-fashioned, the kitchen was anything but. All the appliances were brand new, top of the line. Macbeth might not have been here in ages, but he obviously took care of the place. Everything was clean, and the refrigerator was stocked with fresh food. Erika pulled out a small bag of chocolate chip cookies and jumped up on one of the stools, munching happily.

"You shouldn't eat right before bed," Robyn scolded. "It'll give you nightmares."

"Naha," the girl shook her head vehemently.

"Alright, you'll see," knowing how stubborn her daughter could be, Robyn knew that a lesson from experience was more potent than anything she told her.

The library there was even more impressive than the one in his château in Paris, probably because most of the books here were collector items rather than anything for current research. Robyn was amused – though not surprised – to find what she was fairly sure was a first edition of William Shakespeare's play "Macbeth". She'd have to ask him what he thought of that piece of literature when she had the chance.

Erika was less impressed with the dusty old books since none of them were for children. She was yawning again, and the old grandfather clock in the corner reminded Robyn that it was well past her bedtime. She ushered her upstairs, with Erika only slightly complaining that she was not tired. The bedrooms that were given to them were not hard to find. For all her protests, the girl was in her flannel yellow nightgown and under the covers in a matter of minutes.

"I'll be right next door," she told her daughter. "Good night, darling."

"Night."

Sleep came surprisingly easy to Robyn, but it did not last long. The first thing she recognized when she returned to the waking world was that Erika was by her bedside and shaking her awake. There was no digital clock in the room and it was too dark to make out what the hands on the wall pointed to, but the darkness itself told Robyn that it was nowhere near morning.

"What is it?" she blinked a few times.

"Weird noises," Erika whispered pointing at the ceiling, "from up here."

She sat up slightly and listened. Nothing. Her head dropped back to the pillow.

"I did tell you not to eat sweets before bed," she murmured, already halfway back to sleep. "Go back to bed."

"Mommy..."

Robyn sighed, rose, and retrieved her robe from the chair next to the bed. Erika was not likely to settle until she at least pretended to check things out, so taking her daughter's hand in her own, she walked the length of the upstairs hallway back and forth until they returned to the door to the girl's room.

"See?" she told her. "It was just a bad dream."

And because the universe was no doubt conspiring against her, the second she said it, the air pulsed with a loud but low hum. Erika gasped a little and clutched her mother's hand tighter, but she certainly did not forget to shoot her a see?-told-you look.

"It's a ghost!"

This time Robyn did not argue. Her still-sleepy mind could not place the sound, though she was sure she had heard it before. It lingered for a few more seconds before disappearing with a small puff. The sound of something metallic opening or closing passed through, followed a moment later by the front door rattling. Robyn pressed her index finger to her lips, indicating for Erika to be quiet, then pointed at the floor telling her to stay upstairs. It was probably no more than some locals unable to contain their curiosity, but she preferred to keep her daughter where she would be safer.

Swiftly making her way down the long staircase and to the large oak door, she unlatched the numerous locks and pushed down on the handle to open the door. Before she could react, Erika squealed in delight from the top of the stairs and flew down so fast that Robyn's heart skipped a beat afraid that she would trip on her own feet. Amazingly enough she made it down safe and sound and was instantly in the arms of the man who had walked through the door.

"Uncle Macbeth!"

* * * * * * * * * *

He had learned long ago – almost as soon as the first passenger planes began to cross the Atlantic – that the best way to deal with jet lag was to suffer through it. It was not as if he was a stranger to going for long periods of time without much rest. With the kettle boiling and coffee press filled with freshly ground beans, he felt ready to tackle the day, and the first task was breakfast.

By the time Robyn came downstairs around eight, he had sausages, bacon, eggs, fried tomatoes, sliced fruit, and potato scones on the table and was starting on the oatcakes. It was a haggis away from being a traditional Scottish breakfast. His niece stopped in the doorway, blinking rapidly at the food.

"You cook," her brow creased. "For an army."

"This is a meal of trueborn highlanders," he chastised. "Unlike in your Paris. Croissant and coffee will _never_ be breakfast."

"You like Paris," she reminded him, taking the cup of tea he offered.

"Aye, I do," Macbeth agreed as he placed the remainder of the food on the table and set the plates and silverware. "But French food is barely enough to keep those skeletal models alive."

Robyn tried not to snort and covered it by taking a sip of her tea. "I thought you weren't coming till later."

"I know. My apologize, once again, for scaring you last night. I managed to wrap up things up quicker than I expected," he replied. "Jason is an invaluable help."

At the mention of her brother, Robyn immediate looked interested. "How is he?"

A beat, then, "He's alright," but she already picked up on the tiny hesitation.

"What's wrong?" she tried not to sound too aggressive, like she was turning a simple conversation into an interrogation.

"Nothing new. He made an attempt to speak with Castaway recently."

Robyn sucked in a sharp breath. "To no avail," she guessed.

"To no avail," Macbeth confirmed. "I _am_ sorry. For you and Jason, at least."

Macbeth, who had never known her younger brother as anything but John Castaway, had a hard time summoning any emotion on the matter. It was not personal to him. He knew that some years ago, that man had been Robyn and Jason's little brother and empathized with them for their loss, but he had also seen men like him too many times to feel anything other than contempt.

"And Jason?"

"Feels guilty," again, nothing new there. "I have him some work to do more in way of distraction than anything else. It seemed to help."

Robyn wrapped her fingers around her cup and stared into the rich dark liquid. "I cannot do anything for him anymore. It's been years, and God knows I've tried, but I won't risk Erika's safety no matter how terrible it sounds."

"It's not terrible," Macbeth objected. "You're being a mother. And, in any case, there is nothing you can do for him. You cannot force someone to change if they don't wish to. But on to a different topic: how _is_ Erika?"

Her face brightened instantly. "She's wonderful. I'm actually a little amazed at just how well everything is with her considering our less than ordinary lifestyle."

Macbeth looked like an adult who was just confronted with a child who'd told a ridiculous fib. "She's surrounded by people who love her. Why shouldn't she thrive?"

Robyn gave a small shrug of her shoulders, and they fell into a companionable silence. She found that the food, although different, was good. She had been born in Scotland after all, and no matter how much her family moved over the years, the taste of home was unmistakable.

"What does Erika think of the country so far?" Macbeth asked after a sip of his coffee.

"She hasn't seen much of it past the train window," Robyn reminded him, "but I'm fairly certain Harry wins this round."

"Surely you don't really think you're in competition," the old man laughed.

"No, I suppose not," she sighed. "I want her to like it here, but she's a little girl. In her mind, kangaroos trump sheep."

"There's more to Scotland than sheep. You planned to go up to the castle today?"

"That's what I told her," Robyn nodded. "Of course that's before I knew you'd be here today."

"No reason to change your plans. I'll give you a personal tour," he leaned back in his chair with a smug smile. "I don't believe it would be to presumptuous to say I know its history better than any of the other guides. Though I should tell you in advance, I do plan on going to Iona in the evening."

Iona was a sacred isle, the burial place of kings. Robyn knew historians thought Macbeth himself was buried there. Obviously that was not the case, and she could not fathom why he would want to go. He must have read the question on her face, and his own went unusually cold.

"My son is buried there," he reminded her. No matter Macbeth's bravo, she thought it could not be pleasant for him to speak of Luach to someone of Canmore's blood. Which was why his next statement surprised her. "I think you should go with me."

"To see Duncan and Malcolm Canmore's graves?" Robyn glared. "No, thank you. They're in the ground; end of story. And, with all due respect, you know better than to ask."

"The thing is," he said carefully, unfazed, "I am not convinced you actually believe they _are_ in the ground."

She gave him a funny look. "Unless you tell me they're immortal, like you..."

"Heaven forbid. I would not wish this on my worst enemy." There was no need to add that he did not have to wish for something that was already a fact. "I simply meant to say that they have not ceased haunting you. Or perhaps it's more appropriate to say that you continue to let them."

Robyn was about to say something – whether in anger or agreement, she did not know – but was saved from having to do so when Erika went bouncing into the room.

"Morning!"

"Good morning, lass," Macbeth pulled out a chair for her, and she giggled and scrambled up. "Have some breakfast?"

Robyn had almost finished her own but stayed and listened as Erika talked about everything that had happened since he visited them last. She was very enthusiastic in her retelling of their trip to Australia, and Macbeth, who no doubt had been to the island-continent many times, delighted her with genuine interest.

"Oh? And what did you see there, lassie?"

Erika thought for a long moment then recited. "Kangaroos and koalas and wombats and platypuses and dingos."

"Certainly sounds exciting," Macbeth smiled, and the little girl nodded vigorously. "Do you know what lives in Scotland?"

She had a harder time coming up with an answer this time. "Ahh... cows and horses and lots and lots of sheep," she wracked her brain for something more exotic. "And gargoyles!"

Macbeth was glad to be sitting in a sturdy chair or he would have surely fallen over as he howled with laughter. Erika was momentarily startled then grinned, guessing her answer must have pleased her uncle. Robyn had to once again hide her laughter behind her cup of tea. Well, she did have a point. No gargoyles in Australia, while Scotland was the only place in the world to boast two clans.

They made it up to the castle by ten, early enough that there were no real crowds. Not that there ever were. The famous castle at Edinburgh was much more popular as a tourist attraction than the one at Moray. The only people that came here were historians who knew the true significance of it. To Robyn it was like any of the many European castles she'd visited, but she wondered what Macbeth thought about it. It had been his home, after all, no matter how many centuries passed.

From the outside, the building was largely unchanged. Structures like these were built to last in the old days as it was known that they would serve as both home and fortress and were expected to house many generations of the stewards of Moray. Here and there, where battle and age had damaged the castle, modern patchwork could be seen, but even that was blended almost seamlessly into the rest of it.

It was well preserved on the inside as well. Macbeth recognized many of the artifacts on display, some with fondness others as pieces of rubbish he could not fathom why they should be saved. The one thing Robyn noticed was a distinct lack of any images of real people. Of courser there were tapestries – most old castles had them for both insulation and decoration – but she saw little in ways of portraits of any kind, though there was an etching of a bearded man hanging in the main hall.

"I think that's supposed to be you," Robyn guessed when Macbeth came around behind her to look at it.

"Not a great likeness, is it?" the former kind smiled. "Probably because it was made centuries after my supposed death. With no reference, I might add."

The adults walked after Erika, who ran around each room at top speed to look at the displayed first. She read the plates and asked questions, and Macbeth answered them openly and honestly, without any attempts to simplify them. Erika, obviously thrilled that she was being treated like any other intelligent person instead of a little kid, drank in the stories with awe, and Robyn found herself listening, too. It was one thing to read history books, but a first-hand account was unmatched. They came to a stairway leading to the upper floors that was roped off, and Erika looked up at it mournfully.

"What's up there?" she pointed.

"The bedchamber," Macbeth replied.

"Boring," the girl declared, relieved not to be missing anything she considered important, and moved on.

"Boring for her," he muttered. "I had many good times there."

Robyn bit her lip to keep from laughing, then sobered.

"Is it painful for you?" she finally brought up the courage to ask. "I know I asked you be be here, but I never asked if you minded."

"If I did, I would have said no," Macbeth said reasonably. "No, I don't mind, and it does not bother me to be here. These were the best years of my life, even if I have not spoken of them aloud for a long time."

He glanced back up the stairs and Robyn followed his gaze.

"You miss your wife."

It may have been a 'the sky is blue' kind of comment, but nevertheless he affirmed it with a slight nod.

"She was kind and warm and loving. I will live a thousand more years, and none will match those I spent with her."

Robyn could see he was many centuries away and remained quiet, respectful of his privacy. She was not a sentimental person by nature, but even the most cynical person in the world would be moved by such an epic love story. She thought of what she had been taught. Like the rest of the world, most of her knowledge of Macbeth – no matter how false – came from the Shakespearean play. Her uncle still owned a copy.

"How could history have gotten it so wrong?" she mused half to herself.

The question seemed to break him from his own trance. "Most if it is not history at all, but guesswork based on the Scottish Play," he replied, echoing her own thoughts. "And much of it _is_ true, though not at all accurate."

"True?" Robyn raised a brow. "The way Shakespeare paints your wife..."

"Ah," Macbeth cleared his throat, not so much angry as she would have guessed but rather uncomfortable. "The character of Lady Macbeth is not based on Gruoch."

He moved on, following Erika who had escaped to the next room, before she could voice her confusion. It seemed there were still things about him that she did not know.

The small cafeteria where they had stopped for lunch was close to the gift shop, and after everyone had eaten, Erika pulled them inside to look at the things for sale. Robyn bought her daughter two hair clips decorated with Celtic knots while Macbeth picked out a disk containing what he considered to be a good collection of Scottish and Irish music. Before he could pay for it though, Robyn studied the song list.

"These _are_ age-appropriate," Robyn asked skeptically.

"What do you consider not age-appropriate?"

"Anything that makes mention of what's under Scottish kilts. "Donald, Where's Your Trousers?", "The Scotsman's Kilt." The list goes on."

"I see," he nodded soberly. "And how old were you when you learned those little ditties?"

"Ten or eleven," Robyn admitted. "I'm sure my father wouldn't have approved, but that's what big brothers are for."

"These should be fine," he assured her. "Listen to them first if you like."

There was a whole section of kilts both for men and women that hung in one of the corners of the shops. Erika marveled at them, giggling continuously, and when her mother and uncle came up behind her turned and pointed at the rack.

"I can buy you one if you want," her mother offered. Erika shrugged.

"Did you ever wear one?" she asked Macbeth.

"I did," he said proudly. "The plaid pattern signifies what clan one belongs to."

"Are you supposed to wear pants under it?" the adults stared at her. " 'Cause in that one song, Donald didn't."

Macbeth covered his mouth, pretending to wipe something off his face in a miserable attempt to hide his laughter, while Robyn rubbed the bridge of her nose in exasperation.

"Where did you hear that song, sweetheart?" she asked, trying hard not to sound too angry or amused. She could not decide which was stronger.

"Uncle Jason taught it to me. Want me to sing it?"

* * * * * * * * * *

They spent the rest of the day down in the village, which, although not quite as old as the castle, also looked like it had not changed much. Many of the streets remained unpaved, houses build in the old fashioned way rather than using any new technology. Macbeth told Robyn that there was a total of two phones in the entire place: one in the post office and one in the police station neither of which saw much use. On the other hand, there were five pubs which could comfortably seat the entire town with room to spare.

The sun had not yet set by the time they stopped at one of those for dinner. The locals grew a bit quiet when Macbeth entered. They may not have known who he really was, but they knew him as the loner who owned the large house on the outskirts of the village but rarely stayed there. Robyn and Erika were a curiosity by default of bing with him, but if there was gossip it was not within their hearing. They sat down at a long table – Macbeth on one side with Robyn across from him and Erika close by her – and ordered.

"I'll take you both home before I head to Iona," he said while they waited for food to arrive. "But I feel obligated to, one again, invite you along."

Robyn glanced sidelong at her daughter and was relieved to see that she did not seem to be paying much attention, busy studying the patterns in the wooden surface of the table in front of her. She did not want to have to answer any of her questions about what Iona was and why her uncle was inviting them there.

"Why do you want us to go?" she asked in a low voice. "Duncan and Malcolm Canmore were no friends of yours."

"No," he admitted. "But there is more at Iona than just their markers. It costs you nothing, and you may gain an insight." He nodded in Erika's direction. "Tell her it's for me, if you like."

She looked like she was about to answer then reached for the cell phone in her pocket as if it had vibrated and began to get up from the table.

"It's probably Harry checking up on us. I should talk to him."

"I wanna talk to Daddy!" Erika instantly perked up.

_So much for not paying attention_, Robyn thought. _Or is that just selective hearing?_ "Can I talk to him first while you stay here and keep Uncle Macbeth company? You can call him a little later."

"Okay," the little girl sat back down, pouting a little.

Robyn smiled and touched her daughter's cheek in thanks before heading outside. She hoped it was not too obvious to Macbeth that the phone had not actually rung. At least part of what she said was true though, even if she was the one dialing the numbers to call her husband. After the phone made the international connection and two rings later he picked up.

"I knew you couldn't keep away," Dingo's tone was mischievous.

"Hi, Harry. How are things back home?"

"The usual. World War III hasn't broken out yet, but the night's still young. How's our girl? How's your vacation going?"

"Erika's good. She was asking for you earlier," she could practically hear him grinning over the phone. Robyn told him a little of how the last two days went until she got to the present and what was really bothering her. "Macbeth wants me to go to Iona with him."

"Which is..."

"A small island with a graveyard where the kings of Scotland are buried."

"You don't exactly sound thrilled."

"You're surprised?"

"No, 'at's why I'm wonderin' why you're tellin' me this." There was a pause on his end. "If you want me to say you don't have to go if you don't want to, consider it said."

"I don't want it to look like I'm afraid to," she wrapped her free arm around her torso and leaned on the outer wall of the tavern.

"Who says you're afraid?"

"Macbeth'll think so."

"Who cares what he thinks?"

"I do," Robyn admitted with not a small bit of reluctance. "He's a little odd, but he kind of grew on me. I like having him around. He's..."

"Family?" Dingo suggested wryly. "Look, like I said, if you don't wanna go, don't, but I get the feelin' that you're tryin' to get me t' say that you _should_."

At one time a comment like that would have annoyed her, but they had been together for far too long and it just went to show just how well her husband knew her. So well that he understood why she called him before she knew it herself. He waited patiently for her to decide what to say next. Uncharacteristically, Robyn voiced exactly what was on her mind at that moment.

"I miss you," her smile showed through her voice.

"Back achya, Sheila. 'Specially right 'round bedtime."

She could not help but laugh a little. "I'll make it up to you."

"Don't think I won't hold you to that," his tone was teasingly unconvinced.

She remained outside long after they had said good bye, thinking. And, because she wanted to prove once and for all that she was not afraid, Robyn decided to go.

Getting to the island required crossing the entire country, but a journey that had once taken Macbeth weeks now took only an hour by train and boat. By the time they arrived it was past nine, and Erika was asleep in Robyn's arms, tired from the long day of walking and exploring. No one bothered them as they made their way to the Abby. Weather in Scotland tended to be rainy and dreary in the first place around this time of year, but it was doubly so on the island. As the graveyard open up before them, Robyn stood back and let Macbeth walk over to Luach's grave alone.

Once upon a time, Macbeth had been Catholic, with more than a little of a touch of the Old Ways to him, but the centuries had burned all beliefs in any one particular organized religion from him. Still it felt good to mouth the prayers – both in Latin and Gaelic – as stood, head bowed, over his son's grave stone and lay his hand on the cool marker. His own century long suicidal quest for vengeance had kept him from his family for far too long, but now the former king felt peace wash over him. Finally he looked up.

"Come," he told Robyn. "I want to show you something."

He moved towards a different row of stones further in the back, and she began to follow but stopped at Luach's grave. Shifting her daughter a little so that she had a free hand, she mimicked Macbeth's gesture of touching the stone.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the dead, though she could not be certain what it she was apologizing for, before continuing to follow her uncle.

Macbeth led her to another set of stones, and Robyn studied the carvings on them in an attempt to decipher who they belonged to. The letters were Latin, but then so was the language. She thought that one of them may belong to Malcolm, but there were many kings who bore that name so her guess was not very informative. Luckily the one king still living was there to clarify.

"This one," Macbeth pointed to the one at her left, "belongs to Kenneth II. His niece, Princess Kathrine, still lives on the mystical isle of Avalon. She is entirely responsible for the survival of thirty-six gargoyle eggs, now grown to adulthood. You met one of them already: Angela, of the Manhattan clan."

"We also nearly killed her once," Robyn pointed out.

"But you didn't," Macbeth argued and moved on. "This one is Kenneth's son Maol Chalvim or Malcolm II. He was mine and Duncan's grandfather and one of the greatest kings Scotland had ever known. There is more to your line than just blood, Robyn. There is greatness as well."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because the truth is, I worry about you. Jason as well, but especially you. Him I can at least keep an eye on, and I think he feels that his physical trauma as well as current work with me is just payment for past misdeeds. But you... you seem to have shifted your anger from Demona to your ancestors, neither of which is terribly healthy or productive. Hating the dead is just as fruitless as trying to kill an immortal for 900 years."

She said nothing, but continued to look at the graves.

"Not to mention," Macbeth continued, "that you're denying your daughter a very rich heritage. She should know that she's the child of kings and should be proud of it. As should you."

"I'm proud to be related to you," she offered with the hint of a smile.

"Me?" Macbeth laughed. "What makes you think I'm so great?"

"You're good to me and my family."

"Jason tells me your father was good to you, too."

Robyn hesitated. It had been a very long time since she thought of Charles Canmore. He had been a good father as far as the everyday things went. He never raised a hand or even his voice to his children and no one could deny he loved them. But Robyn could not help but feel that he had chosen the hunt over her and her brothers, no matter what his intentions had been.

"I wore the mask, too, for a time," the old king said. "How much does that change your opinion of me?"

Robyn blinked. "_You_ were a Hunter? What could possibly make you want to put that thing on after everything Gillecomgain, Duncan, and Malcolm Canmore did to you?"

"It doesn't matter," Macbeth shook his head. "It's over now. For my part, anyway. Take advice from an old man who has lived far longer than you; the past is to be remembered, not feared or hated. Do not forget the mistakes of past generations, but do not dwell on them either."

She had nothing to say in way of rebuttal.

It was past midnight by the time they returned to Moray and the mansion. Macbeth retired to his study while Robyn took her daughter upstairs. Erika woke up briefly just as she was putting her to bed, and Robyn helped her get her nightgown on and climb under the covers.

"Would you be interested," she said slowly, "in seeing the castle where your ancestors lived?"

With the offer made, Robyn knew she could not back out of it. She was also not surprised when her daughter, momentarily completely awake, nodded enthusiastically.

"Can Uncle Macbeth come, too?"

"I'll ask him," she promised and, after giving her a kiss good night, went downstairs.

She found Macbeth in his library putting away some books he had brought back from the States that he no longer needed for his research. Another pile that he was planning to take back was lying on the large table near the window. He acknowledged her with a nod, Robyn took a seat in the office chair next to his desk and swiveled it to face him.

"I want to apologize," she said. "I've been acting like a brat all evening, even though I know that you're doing all this as a favor."

Macbeth's lips curved in a slight smile. "You have nothing to be sorry for. I know this is difficult. History often is. Nevertheless I accept your apology."

"I just..." she still felt the need to explain. "I know that not all of my family's history is as terrible as I make it sound, but I do feel like I have to protect Erika from the parts that are."

"History is never black and white," he reminded her. "As long as she understands that..."

"History is also constantly being rewritten and forgotten," her voice was grim. "I didn't even know what started the hunt until you told me."

At those words, he put the book in his hand down and turned to face her completely, arms crossed and brow furrowed in thought. "Then," Macbeth chose his words carefully, "should she or any other children and descendants you may have ever forget, I will be there to remind them."

It was his way of saying that he would look out for her family, possibly for centuries to come. For a man who was so used to solitude, it was a commitment of enormous proportions, and Robyn fully recognized that. He was right, of course; all history had to be remembered. The good for pride, and the ill so that the mistakes of the past were never repeated.

She could not find the words to convey her gratitude but mouthed a silent 'thank you'. Macbeth inclined his head in acceptance before returning to the shelves. Robyn was about to rise to go when she remembered the reason why she had come down in the first place.

"If we leave a few days early and go to Edinburgh," she said, "would you come with us?"

Pleasantly surprised, her uncle smiled. "It would be a pleasure."


End file.
